The Room of Reconciliation
by DesertC
Summary: Lucius Malfoy plays matchmaker with Severus and Hermione at his annual Malfoy ball. And leaves them in a locked room.


A/N: Just a little oneshot written for SSHG smutfest. Hope you enjoy, DSxx

Tags: fingering, rimming, light bondage, oral sex.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

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Lucius Malfoy surveyed the ballroom with pride. He often considered himself in these moments to be rather primal in his outlook—despite his obvious refinement and sophistication. Akin, perhaps, to a wise and regal lion, complete with perfect mane of silver-white, presiding over those in attendance with an august charm—providing for them with a level of generosity and extravagance that had made such evenings legendary . . . 'epic' even—a word that he had become quite enamoured with of late.

It was the annual Malfoy ball—the most prestigious event on anyone's social calendar. Invite only of course. Someone stupid had tried to convince him to change the name, claiming that if one pronounced it quickly, it sounded a lot like 'Mal Foible' meaning 'unpleasant shortcomings'. Of course he had immediately struck them from the invite list . . . and struck them in the nose with his cane for good measure. Both had been satisfying . . . particularly since he was always under pressure when it came to the guest list which was inevitably over-subscribed. He went to great pains to devise the list himself, partially because Narcissa refused to be involved, spending the night at her sister's to allow him to 'get it out of his system', but mainly to achieve exactly the right blend on the night—resplendent with aristocracy, impressive wizarding bloodlines, old money, intellectual sophistication, political nous and, most importantly of all, fantastic tits.

 _Yes_. He sighed contentedly at the delectable smorgasbord of flesh now drifting and swaying about the room. Ball gowns were particularly ingenious creations—perfectly designed to showcase a woman's 'breast' assets. If they weren't, he might have had to devise another annual event—a scantily clad Quidditch match on some rickety old Nimbus 250's or some such—in order to get his fill. As it was, the evening was deliciously ripe with myriad morsels of the mammary variety—and he'd not yet handled a single one, not so much as a nipple. That would come later . . . and so would he.

For now he was the charismatic host, the King of the jungle, attending to his guests' every need—lubricating and titillating them, plying them with the best of food and drink . . . and whatever perspective-enhancing poison might take their fancy. Later he would be the feasting lion, wild and prowling, fucking everything that he could get his cock into and eating out the rest.

In pursuit of that perfect level of compliance and carnality, the French champagne was flowing . . . literally. He'd engaged a rather talented 'party conjurer' to create an endless waterfall of the stuff, cascading and bubbling away now in the corner to enable rapid, foaming refills, without guests having to engage with the filthy house-elves, whom he'd forbidden to leave the kitchen anyway.

His other failsafe mood-setting strategy was to ensure that no glass was ever empty and that no one was left standing alone. Which was why he was so aggravated when he suddenly noticed one guest standing in the back corner, speaking into one of those annoying Muggle communication devices.

Hermione Granger. He clenched his jaw in irritation. It had been a risk inviting her but he'd considered it worthwhile. Of course she was smart enough to hold her own amongst distinguished company, and she had risen to quite a prominent rank within the Ministry, overseeing the import of magical goods, but the real reason for wanting her there in the end had, of course, been her tits. What they lacked in size, they made up for with a jaunty perkiness that he could imagine would be rather hypnotic if he could ever get her to ride him. But if she was going to spend all night standing in the corner being antisocial, there was little chance of that . . . and her glass was empty.

Lips twisting with determination, he Accio'd a bottle of red wine and stepped down from the front stage, proceeding to wind his way past guests, smiling, patting backs, offering the odd word of encouragement and nodding graciously.

By the time he reached her, she had stopped talking at the device and had moved on to molesting it—tapping, flicking and ogling it with such intensity that she seemed oblivious to his approach.

"Miss Granger," Lucius greeted her smoothly. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"Just a moment, please." She continued to tap and flick.

 _Not so much oblivious, as indifferent?_

Lucius could feel his practised smile beginning to fail. It wasn't often he was forced to play second fiddle, particularly to a piece of Muggle garbage. He was tempted to simply turn and leave, to order one of the security Werewolves to see her out. But then she stopped tapping, brushed a few stray hairs back from her forehead and greeted him with a smile of such warmth, infused with so much natural sensuality, that it went straight to his cock.

"My apologies, Mr Malfoy." She touched him lightly on the arm. "There's a consignment of dragon eggs arriving and I should really be there. I didn't feel I could refuse your invitation but there have been a few issues and I'm trying to deal with them."

"Not at all," he chortled good-naturedly, holding the bottle out to her.

Her hand went quickly over her glass. "I'm afraid not. I can't have more than one or I won't be able to sleep."

 _Up all night after a single glass?_ Even though it was patently clear she was referring to insomnia, he preferred to think of her sleep interrupted by the need to indulge in spontaneous bouts of rampant wine-induced fucking.

"Surely one more wouldn't hurt. It is Friday evening after all," he gently cajoled her. "You can't possibly mean to work on a Saturday?"

"I work every Saturday," she stated simply. "And Sunday. The role I have should really have three incumbents but there's only me . . . so—" she lifted her slender arms in a shrug of resignation, her smile fading slightly with what might have been exhaustion if she hadn't been too proud to deny it.

"But when do you get to . . . enjoy yourself. To relax?" He tilted his head inquisitively as he leaned in a little closer, inhaling warm motes of vanilla.

Her laughter was surprisingly genuine, bright and airy. "I'm afraid I've forgotten what that's like. I suppose it's fortunate that I enjoy my work."

"Indeed," he purred. "But perhaps I could give you something to help relieve the tension. A little concoction to . . . loosen you up?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I think I'm as loose as I care to be, Mr Malfoy. But I do thank you for the offer."

Suddenly she looked down as the device in her hand vibrated.

"I'm so sorry. If you don't mind, I need to take this."

And then her back was to him.

He might have been furious at the snub except that he happened to be quite taken with her. He didn't even mind looking at her back. Her dress was more cocktail style than ball gown but it was particularly elegant, silver, cut low enough to almost see the dimples above her buttocks. Her shoulder blades moved with a languid elegance as she gestured needlessly to whomever she was talking to. And the smooth valley of skin down her spine was so enticing, he wondered if she would notice if he licked it.

He sighed. It was too early in the evening to be considering such things, and whilst he would prefer her wasted and easy, he would clearly have to put up with her sharp as a tack and—judging by that interaction—completely unattainable. At least she was visually pleasing enough not to bother removing her . . . for the time being.

Turning abruptly, he felt the frown return to his perfect brow. Another one. Far side of the room. Isolated. Empty glass. This time it was no surprise. Snape.

Lucius wondered why anyone would attend a ball with the intention of actively avoiding engagement with every other guest. As it was, Severus turned up mercifully rarely. It seemed to depend upon how trivial he considered it to be, which seemed to depend upon how well his current brewing projects were faring. Clearly things were slow.

At present, the dark wizard seemed to be intensely occupied with ignoring everyone by perusing the books within the ballroom cabinets.

"So good that you could make it, Severus." Lucius stepped between Snape and the object of his interest, causing the younger man to recoil slightly. He never did like people being in his personal space . . . unless he initiated it.

"Lucius," Snape muttered, not even attempting to smile. "You appear to have the third edition of 'Early Essences'. I wondered if the historical inaccuracies regarding the origins of Danderdew had been corrected . . . I did submit an amendment to the author and was assured that it would be rectified."

Lucius started at him blankly. He'd never read any of the books in this room. They were purchased purely for show and to imply a certain level of worldliness. He certainly didn't give a fuck about historical inaccuracies . . . especially when there was so much high-class pussy within groping distance.

"Allow me." Lucius quickly poured wine into Severus' glass before grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him to face the crowd.

"Notice anything you like?" he murmured in Snape's ear.

Snape took a gulp of wine before pressing his lips together disdainfully. "Not really."

Lucius' jaw jerked a little in irritation. Snape had always been unusually picky—far more selective than he really should be considering his multitude of . . . peculiarities. But somehow it seemed to work for him—the women returned again and again. That was, of course, until Snape grew tired of commitment, dismissing them, as he was attempting to do to Lucius now.

Lucius tightened his grip on Snape's shoulder.

"How about the lovely Miss Granger? Surely she must come close to meeting with your impeccable standards?"

Snape snorted. "Lovely? She's the main reason I've had to delay my latest project by over three months. Her new importation standards are ridiculous. The paperwork is unwieldy. Her responsiveness is sluggish at best, and her adherence to basic levels of common courtesy non-existent. I really don't know what she does all day."

"I understand she is rather busy." Lucius was surprised to find himself defending her.

"We're all busy. But we don't all deliberately interfere with the efforts of others."

Lucius looked at Hermione who was still on that damned Muggle contraption. He needed to get her off it.

"Perhaps if you spoke to her? Explained your predicament?"

"Have you ever spoken to her?" Snape looked at him as though he were insane. "Self-important, obnoxious, know-it-all. I'd rather remove my own spleen."

 _Well that was rather vehement_. Snape didn't waste energy on anyone, not anymore. Lucius studied him out of the corner of his eye. While Snape's scowl was rather convincing, he sensed a disproportionate level of irritation. _Did he fancy her?_

His gaze returned to Hermione, who was now absently rocking on one of her elegant silver heels as she spoke, free hand tugging on a stray tendril of hair. She was nowhere near as obnoxious as Snape had suggested but she was definitely uptight. He suspected he knew exactly what she needed—what would do her the world of good. And he surmised from Snape's petulance that he was equally in need, although he would have his work cut out for him attempting to satisfy himself with Miss Granger. Nevertheless, it would give them both an opportunity to work through their differences . . . and he would rid himself of some messy, mood-sappers into the bargain. It was a rather brilliant plan . . . even for someone as prone to brilliance as himself.

"I happen to have procured an extremely rare text that I believe will be of considerable interest to you." He patted Snape on the shoulder. "How about we take a look?"

"What is it?" Snape peered down his nose with mild curiosity.

"It's the . . . uh . . . it's a first edition by that fellow . . . you know—the one that you wrote to me about . . . a while back."

"Sternberger?"

"Yes, that's the one," Lucius responded enthusiastically, guiding Severus around the waltzing couples. "In fact, I consider it to be a rather pivotal text . . . one of such seminal interest . . . that I might just inquire whether—"

He swivelled them abruptly to the right and handed Severus the wine bottle before catching Hermione by the elbow. She turned with surprise.

"Miss Granger, so pleased that you have managed to sort out your . . . issues."

"Actually, I—"

Lucius ploughed on, "I'm about to show Severus an extremely rare addition to my book collection. I insist that you accompany us. Your opinion will be invaluable."

Severus' frown deepened and Hermione looked less than convinced but Lucius tightened his grip on both, dragging them through the vast doorway and down the corridor. He kept up a constant stream of dialogue—or, more accurately, monologue, not allowing either to speak for fear of them managing to lodge a protest—before stopping in front of a room—a very special room that he'd had modified for a different purpose but one that would work perfectly for his current plan.

Withdrawing his wand from his sleeve, he unlocked the door, threw flames into the wall lamps, and ushered them inside.

It wasn't a large room. But there was a large bed. Lucius immediately attempted to divert attention from it.

"I keep the book locked in this room, as I considered it too risky to leave in the library. Miss Granger, if you would be so kind as to make your way over to those drawers. It should be in the third one down."

Hermione was looking increasingly perplexed, but she did as instructed, approaching the chest of drawers, bending over and tugging on the handle in an attempt to open it.

"I'm afraid it's locked."

"No, it's simply jammed," Lucius insisted. "Severus, could you please assist Miss Granger?"

Snape huffed, wedging the wine bottle under his arm as he made his way across to her. They tugged at the drawer, one handle each, but to no avail.

"She's right, it's lock—"

"I'm pleased that you have managed to agree on something," Lucius purred smoothly, backing out the door. "Now I'm sure you two have plenty more to share."

Quickly dousing the lights, he pulled the door closed, locking it.

Hermione stood in the darkness, trying to process what had just happened.

"Did you plan this?" she finally spoke into the void, to the spot last occupied by Snape. "Is this some sort of trick?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Snape muttered in response, his voice moving away as he spoke. "Alohomora."

Hermione waited for the door to open. It didn't.

"What's going on?"

"Alohomora," Snape repeated.

Nothing.

"Professor?" Her voice rose.

"Lumos."

Darkness.

"Professor, tell me what is going on . . . now!" she demanded.

"As it seems that you require the bleeding obvious to be pointed out to you. We are currently locked inside a room."

"My question is why you haven't unlocked the room," she snapped.

"Because Mr Malfoy seems to have seen fit to imbue the room with anti-magic properties, nullifying my spells. Is that coherent enough for you?"

"And why would he do that?"

"Who knows?"

"He must have had a reason."

"Does one need a reason to be a prat?"

"You tell me," she retorted.

He didn't reply.

Instead she heard a loud thud, as though he had rammed something large against the door, probably himself. It came again, followed by a muttered, 'Fuck'.

Clearly he hadn't been particularly successful. Hermione looked around blindly, there wasn't the remotest source of light anywhere. Then she suddenly remembered her phone. _Could she call someone to let them out?_ Holding it up to her face, she peered at the screen. Dark. She pressed the buttons repeatedly but it appeared to be dead . . . completely. _What had Malfoy done to it?_  
"Perhaps I should try my wand instead," she suggested.

"Of course," he responded snarkily. "Your spell-casting prowess is likely to far exceed my own."

She shook her head in irritation but shoved her wand back into her purse all the same.

"How do I know that this isn't all your doing?" she demanded suddenly, her voice tight with accusation. "That you didn't set this up on purpose?"

"Because you happen to be last person on earth I would want to be locked in a room with," he retorted icily. "Even Voldemort himself would be a preferable roommate at this point."

She rolled her eyes, huffing loudly. "So what do you suggest we do? Stand here hurling insults at one another?"

"Suits me."

But they didn't. They remained standing in silence instead. Hermione found it extremely disconcerting, the seething tension between them, and her eyes determined to deceive her by creating moving patterns in the darkness.

Finally she grew tired of attempting to deflect his palpable ire and felt her way over to the bed, dropping her purse and phone on the floor before propping herself on the edge. Crossing her legs with a huff, she proceeded to roll her ankle back and forth in silent agitation. She had so much work to do and instead she was stuck in a room with the man who had done his best to make not only her school life a misery, but her job far more difficult than it needed to be.

He was such an obstinate git, refusing to follow procedures just on principle. Over the past three months she had wanted to slap him on more than one occasion.

 _And what was he doing anyway? Why was he so quiet? Had he managed to leave without her knowing? Had he somehow Apparated out?_

She was going bonkers. The harder she listened, the more she convinced herself that he wasn't there. Until she could stand it no longer.

"Professor?"

"What?"

 _No such luck._

She clasped her hands around her knee and tapped her thumbs together impatiently, wishing she had never agreed to come, wishing she hadn't been so flattered by the invitation, wishing she hadn't been so desperate to pretend that she had a life.

"Is there any wine left in that bottle?"

She heard the slosh almost immediately. He must be holding it out to her. Tentatively she felt for the cool glass before taking it from him. The cork had been removed so she simply tipped it up, drinking straight from the bottle. At least it was good wine.

Continuing to drink, her swallows the only sound in the room, she felt herself begin to relax a little.

"Would you like some?" she ventured, albeit reluctantly.

"No."

She was struck by a fleeting thought—that he didn't wish to drink out of a bottle that her lips had touched. It was juvenile and petty but Snape wasn't beyond that, as he had demonstrated in a number of recent interactions. He was also obsessive, relentless and a stickler for detail—traits that she would have admired if they were applied to anything worthwhile . . . which often they weren't.

She continued to drink. Then she heard Snape—he seemed to be moving around, touching things. A door opened—a cupboard by the sounds of it—then the scrape of a drawer, and another. She tried to think of what else was in the room, having been so distracted earlier that she hadn't paid a lot of attention. He must be searching . . . looking for a way to get them out. The realisation made her feel quite useless—sitting there like a lush (which she definitely wasn't) while he was attempting to save the day.

It wasn't her style. She was extremely independent, relying upon her own mettle to achieve everything she wanted. She wouldn't let him take all the glory.

Placing the bottle down, she stood quickly and took a step forward, but the combination of darkness, drink and heels that were far more ambitious than she should ever have attempted, resulted in her ankle twisting to the right, causing her to collapse with a shriek.

He was instantly there, his unexpected responsiveness almost as shocking as the pain.

"What happened?"

"It's just . . . it's my ankle." She tried to keep her voice even, not wishing to betray her level of discomfort.

Without hesitation he touched her, his hands moving to one ankle and then the other before he flipped off her heels (without permission) and proceeded to slide his arms under her, lifting her onto the bed. How he managed to move so deftly in the absolute darkness, she had no idea but the gentleness with which he lay her down, and the way he proceeded to sit beside her, lifting her injured ankle in both of his warm, dry hands, feeling expertly with his thumbs, was enough to have her stomach somersaulting and her head spinning in confusion.

"It's not broken . . . only sprained," he stated unemotionally.

She probably could have told him so . . . before the examination. But she was glad she hadn't. Sadly enough, it was the most she'd been touched by anything resembling a male for a very long time. She hadn't thought she'd missed it. Apparently she had.

He released her. Her skin tingled. No . . . it ached. For more.

"Is there anything you can do?"

"I don't happen to carry ice in my pockets," he replied tersely.

"I didn't expect . . ." She could feel her hackles rising and didn't want them to. What she wanted was for him to touch her again.

"I meant . . . with your hands."

He was quiet for a moment. "I have an assortment of herbs. I can possibly make a poultice . . . unless you've managed to consume all the wine?"

"No, I didn't actually." Her tone was sharp. He seemed to naturally, effortlessly, bring out her bitter defensiveness, but she managed to stop herself from attempting to land another verbal blow. Feeling blindly beside the bed, she located the bottle and handed it to him.

What followed was something that she would have much preferred to watch but could only imagine, courtesy of a progression of mysterious sounds—rattling, _a packet or bag of some sort?_ The slosh and glug of wine and then what sounded like chewing— _was he masticating the herbs . . . using his teeth?_ He began moving around. She could feel the bed shifting as his weight was redistributed. Then, without warning, the air was rent by the sharp screech of ripping material. This was followed by more sloshing and then a cool, moist press against her throbbing ankle. A strip of cloth was carefully wrapped around her entire foot, before being secured firmly in place. Then she felt the bed buckle and a distinct warmth as he leaned over her, returning to place a pillow under her heel, raising her ankle up.

 _And all this achieved in the pitch darkness?_ Remarkable. But whilst she might have been impressed by his skill, the fact that he had taken the care to do it—for her of all people, was what struck her most deeply.

Something shifted . . . inside her.

It felt quite bizarre—the internal struggle—the way her feelings for him appeared to be suddenly trying to turn themselves around, like a giant ship that had been full steam ahead in anti-Snape pursuit, now trying to reverse its engines, to set its bearings in the opposite direction.

And then there was the tingle, the dull ache of her skin that still hadn't abated. But despite the embarrassment of such an admission, she was still keen to put it down to pure desperation—wine- rather than Snape-induced. Just the stirring of a long-stagnant pool of desire—that resulting from an unusually prolonged period of male absence. It had been largely self-imposed—in favour of focus and productivity—but now that neglect seemed to be coming back to nibble her on the arse . . . and in other places. She could feel it taking nips at inopportune spots, both externally and internally. It was most . . . unhelpful.

She winced in the darkness, glad that he couldn't see her.

"Thank you, Professor."

There was silence, followed by what sounded like a gentle snort.

"No, really . . . I—"

She touched him. She hadn't planned to—it was simply her natural tendency. She touched people when she spoke to them.

But that's how she discovered his arm.

It was bare. Smooth. Warm. At first she was shocked, unsure of exactly what part of him it was. But then she felt the musculature of a bicep. He was surprisingly well put together. The agonising gears continued to grind inside her.

"Did you remove your sleeve . . . for the poultice?"

He sighed. "No, I happen to enjoy the singular discomfort of sleeveless shirts."

His sarcasm wasn't lost on her. But it did seem rather gallant. In fact, all of his actions had that undercurrent . . . chivalrous, gentlemanly—not at all Snape—at least not the Snape she knew.

Snape stiffened, wishing he'd torn up Lucius' expensive bedding instead. She was touching him, fingering him, her hand sliding searchingly down to his forearm.

"Are you looking for something?"

"No . . . I just . . . wasn't sure if you'd removed the entire thing."

She sounded a little breathless. It could be the pain.

"Are you in pain?"

"No, your treatment is working wonders. It hurts very little."

She was still touching him, her fingertips skimming maddeningly over his skin, tickling his wrist. He snatched his hand away.

"I assure you that the entire sleeve is gone," he snapped.

"Then I owe you a shirt."

Hermione's hand hovered near him, unwilling to retreat entirely. She'd enjoyed the sensation a little too much. There had been a swathe of downy hair, lean twitching muscles . . . and veins, bulging with strength and pulsing with vitality. Swallowing thickly, she drew a deep breath.

"What size are you?"

"What?"

"Your shirt . . . I'd like to—"

"It isn't necessary. I have others."

 _Did he?_ They must be identical.

"Then perhaps there is something else I can do. To show you my . . . gratitude?"

She knew how it sounded. She didn't care how it sounded. It might be the wine. It might be something else. But she was feeling increasingly desperate. As though on the verge of losing an opportunity . . . one that she hadn't thought through particularly well but somehow felt compelled to recklessly pursue all the same.

"Perhaps you might seek to improve upon some of your ridiculously convoluted processes."

She sighed, her hopeful hand dropping back onto her stomach.

"The processes were created for a reason—to enable accurate records to be kept, avoiding a lot of the unacceptable and dangerous breaches of the past. They are designed to protect people and produce. Surely an intelligent man such as yourself can understand that?"

"I don't appreciate your condescension." His weight on the bed shifted away from her. "The paperwork is unwieldy and much of it unnecessary. You need to separate out the requirements based upon the type of goods, supplier, import volume and so on, rather than having a one-size-fits-all approach that doubles up on many elements, slows down the processing and subsequently jeopardises months of work."

"You might have managed to work outside of the rules in the past," Hermione replied, lifting herself onto one elbow as though she could see him. "But we can no longer afford to. Not with the black market thriving, and diseases being introduced that threaten our own magical produce. It must be more rigorously managed than it was."

"And you're the person best placed to introduce such rigor, are you?" he muttered snidely.

"Yes. I am extremely determined . . . and rather meticulous. Much like yourself."

"You are nothing at all like me, Miss Granger."

"I beg to differ."

"Then your appraisal of me is inaccurate."

She stared into the darkness, imagining his black eyes staring back.

"Let me tell you something about yourself, and we will see how inaccurate I am."

He huffed and she imagined she could actually hear the eye roll. "If you must."

"You like to touch . . . but you have difficulty with being touched."

He shifted slightly—she could imagine his perpetual frown deepening. "And what has led you to this penetrating insight?" he drawled, clearly unimpressed.

"The way you attended to me without hesitation, but pulled your hand away when I touched you."

"Perhaps I simply don't enjoy being touched by you."

She smiled, knowing he would hear it in her voice. "That might offend me—if I didn't know that you were attempting to avoid the truth . . . I believe it is a matter of control."

There was silence.

"I tolerate touch as well as anyone."

She was somewhat surprised that he responded at all, but it was an opening that she wouldn't allow to close, not if she could help it. "'Tolerate' is quite a telling term, don't you think?" she replied. "But since my emotional intelligence is at stake, I consider it important to establish the veracity of such a statement. I, therefore, insist that you allow me to determine how accurate my appraisal is."

She felt him shift again. "Is it really necessary to make this situation even more insufferable? Surely you have something more useful to contribute than feeble, erroneous claims?"

"Unless you are afraid of being shown to be wrong . . . or have something better to do?"

There was another long silence.

"Very well," he responded tersely. "Touch me. I have little doubt that you'll be disappointed."

She doubted his doubting. Very much.

"Come closer. I need to be able to reach you . . . all of you."

There was a quiet hissing sound. She imagined the disapproval sliding out between his teeth. Still, she felt him move, and the mattress beside her buckle as he positioned himself closer.

Pushing herself up until she was sitting, Hermione reached for him. She found his hand first, fingers buried in the quilt, clinging on with what felt like grim determination. Gently, she trailed her fingertips over his knuckles, the tension practically popping off them, before starting up his arm. It twitched again under her caress, the muscles wound so tightly that she was tempted to press harder, to force him to release. But instead she continued up, over the impressive curve of his bicep to the solid ball of his broad shoulder, fringed by the shredded remains of his shirt.

She couldn't reconcile the sensation with a visual at all. Snape was always so proper. She had never even encountered him without his frock coat on but now he was both ragged and exposed, and it felt . . . sexy. It was not the body she had expected at all. And whilst she was tempted to try to slip down under the torn fabric to fondle his chest, she didn't want to appear to be taking advantage of the situation (too much) . . . so continued up to his neck, rigid with tension, before riding the curve of his jaw and settling upon his cheek.

He was so very quiet. _Was he even breathing?_

Her thumb drifted searchingly until she found his mouth, the soft pad of his lips . . . parted. She remained there, feeling for his breath. Nothing.

"I would have considered the capacity to 'tolerate' to include the capacity to also breathe," she murmured.

"Have you finished?" he responded abruptly. She felt each word buffet her thumb and it made her smile.

"I think so. That was rather conclusive, don't you think?"

"Not necessarily."

"So you were 'comfortable' with that, were you?" Hermione allowed her hand to trail down his front in a final attempt to fondle him, before removing it entirely.

"Was that intended to be 'comfortable'?" His baritone suddenly sounded closer, as though he was leaning toward her.

"Well . . . you weren't supposed to hate it," Hermione responded.

"They are not one and the same," he stated matter-of-factly. "For example, I could make you intensely uncomfortable . . . and I doubt that you would hate it."

As his words sank in, her own lips fell apart. She suddenly needed more air.

"Do you intend to test that assumption?" she breathed.

"I believe it would appropriate . . . if order to establish whose claim holds greater weight."

Hermione never liked to lose. And the prospect of losing to Snape was even worse. _But what point would she make by engaging? Was this really something she could win?_ His words were rather disquieting but her body was crying out for something . . . anything. And she could always say that she hated it, allowing her to claim some sort of victory . . . if rather hollow.

"I agree to your terms," she stated bravely, wondering exactly what terms she had agreed to.

Then she lay back down, waiting, the darkness closing in on her.

"You'll need to remove your clothing."

Gods, he was serious. She swallowed, trying to gather her thoughts. _What had he meant by 'intense discomfort'? It must be worse than normal discomfort—whatever that was. But was she really up for it? And wasn't she just rolling over? If this was a set-up—an attempt to get her into bed—wasn't she just doing exactly as they had planned?_ She wanted to put up more resistance, to at least appear to be considering an alternative, but she was already too intrigued, too invested to back out.

"Perhaps you could assist? My ankle is still . . ." she trailed off, realising she hadn't given her ankle a second thought.

"Of course."

His hands were instantly on her shoulders, pulling down one strap and then the other before proceeding to slither the filmy dress down the length of her body. Hermione lifted her back and then her hips as he dragged the rest down, finally slithering the entire garment off her feet. Moments later he returned for her knickers, removing those with such calm assurance that her heart suddenly kicked up a gear. He was so confident in this mode that she knew, without a doubt, that she was right about him. He was a control freak. Like her . . . but worse.

"Where do you wish for me to start?" His voice was lower, slower, nowhere near as abrupt and snappish as it had been. She realised then that he knew exactly what he was doing. She'd underestimated him. The thought sent a shiver ricocheting down her spine.

"You . . . you decide." Her own voice was uncharacteristically small and unsure. She wasn't used to giving up control either.

"Very well."

He stared at her—or at least where he imagined her face to be. He was tempted to teach her a lesson. She was so bloody naïve . . . totally inexperienced but still harbouring enough Gryffindor temerity to assume that she could read him. She thought that he was shy for fuck's sake!

Reaching out, he felt the warmth radiating from her before letting his hand settle upon a spot just above her hip. She was so slight, so slender that his fingers could almost span from her navel to the small of her back. And she was trembling . . . ever so slightly.

Smoothing his hand reassuringly over her, he considered his options. She had been a veritable pain in his arse for months now. Every time he'd engaged with her she had been so fucking self-assured and so annoyingly placating that he hadn't been able to let loose with exactly what he thought of her. Now he could. In fact, she was inviting him to do so.

Her breathing was rapid and shallow against his palm as he glided over the fine bones of her rib-cage and nudged against the soft curve of her breast. There was no doubt that she was attractive—he wasn't delusional enough to pretend that she wasn't. But she was also irritating.

And she had been right, he didn't enjoy her touching him. There was something disconcerting about it—searching, exploring, trying to know him in a way that she had no right to . . . not after the way she'd summarily dismissed him.

He peered into the darkness, wondering what was hiding behind it, what was radiating back to him from her . . . from her eyes. They were a very particular shade of brown. Not a colour that should be striking and yet they were . . . suffused with an inner brightness which he may have mistaken for warmth and intelligence if he'd encountered anything of the sort in recent months, which he hadn't. _But what would he see in them now? Apprehension, intrigue . . . or would he see desire?_

His hand closed over her breast and she shuddered, a soft moan drifting up to him. So responsive. So fucking responsive. He sighed inwardly.

In the end, it didn't matter what she felt or wanted. He had informed her of his intentions. And she had agreed. He would now establish just how much of it was bluff courage and how much was true openness to the experience. If she approached sex as she did her job, he doubted there would be any of the latter whatsoever.

Bringing his other hand up to cup her free breast, he gently massaged the two. Both were firm but pleasingly pliant under his practised fingers, her nipples rapidly tightening into ripe buds against the centres of his palms. The sensation suddenly stirred him, causing him to grit his teeth. He'd done this plenty of times before but was having trouble dissociating from her. Perhaps it was the darkness, and the amplification of his senses, or perhaps he was simply tired. Regardless, he was aware that he would need to proceed very carefully.

Hermione was surprised by how big his hands were. They made her breasts feel tiny. But despite their imposing size, they weren't the slightest bit clumsy, each movement as deft and precise as an artisan working with clay. He grazed across her nipples again and again, teasing them into aching peaks, before finally grasping and squeezing them, causing her to cry out, her hands instantly grabbing his.

"You are not to touch me, Miss Granger," he informed her, his voice hovering so close that his rich baritone drizzled over her face like honey.

Biting her lip, she reluctantly let him go, sliding her hands under her buttocks to avoid the temptation. She could have pointed out the obvious reference to his 'touch issues' but she wasn't about to jeopardise what was happening to her . . . not when her body was starting to sing like a steaming kettle . . . like it hadn't it months, possibly even years.

One of his hands continued to squeeze and roll her nipple, making her squirm, her lip taking the bruising brunt of her attempts to keep her keening in check, while his other began a languorous slide down her abdomen, heading due south.

Parting with an embarrassing level of enthusiasm, her knees were like a pair of desperate automatic doors, ushering him into the fold or, more precisely, her folds. As the cool air touched the dampness of her pussy, she became suddenly aware of how shockingly wet she already was. If this was what he meant by 'intense discomfort', she believed she was up to the challenge . . . and if this was in any way an insight into the real Snape, she couldn't believe how wrong she had been about him.

Until very recently—or, more precisely, the last half hour—she had considered him to be as dry, brittle and sexless as a dead twig. _And now?_ Now he was oozing with vitality, with a potent masculine essence that he'd obviously chosen to keep extremely well hidden under an impenetrably severe crust.

How he had suddenly transformed in her mind from desiccated mantis into some deliciously succulent sex god was almost impossible to fathom but it was very real—as she was suddenly forced to inform him when he deftly dipped into the well of desire between her legs.

"Oh Gods, that's . . . Oh, that's good," she groaned, her neck arching off the pillow.

He almost chuckled. He was enjoying this far more than expected . . . even beyond the obvious exuberance evident in his straining cock. She wasn't resisting him whatsoever. In fact, she was encouraging him at every turn, her lack of inhibition proving particularly gratifying . . . and most un-Granger-like. Perhaps he had underestimated her.

She was deliciously wet, his fingers already bathed in a generous veneer of warm, silken arousal. Her moans were imploring him to finger her harder—they burst from beneath him, breathy and raw, as though borne of surprise at her own pleasure. Hips thrusting up to meet him, she drove him deeper on every incursion, and the simultaneous rocking of her pelvis worked the angle of his digits against the soft, muscular walls of her pussy. She definitely knew what she wanted. And she wasn't afraid to use him to get her there.

Sliding his thumb forward, he began to massage the swollen pearl of her clitoris while continuing to service her impressively tight passage. His other hand plucked at her nipples, one and then the other, tugging and squeezing them until her frantic hands were on him again, clutching his own. He'd known she wouldn't be able to resist for long.

And so he stopped.

She continued with a few distracted thrusts before apparently realising, her humping stuttering to an end.

He could imagine her looking up at him, her high, smooth brow now furrowed with confusion.

"Is there something wrong?"

"I told you not to touch me."

She gasped, "I'm so sorry!" Before instantly withdrawing.

Of course it hadn't been purposeful. But it was the perfect opportunity to play with her.

"If I can't trust you to follow my instructions, perhaps this should be drawn to a conclusion."

"No," she blurted desperately. "I'm really very sorry. I won't do it again. I can assure you . . . it was entirely unconscious."

He remained silent. Listening to her pant. Hearing her need.

He made her wait for an agonisingly long time . . . until she started to whimper softly.

"Perhaps it would help if I tied them . . . out of the way?"

He heard her swallow. He could just imagine the cogs whirring around inside her head. _What should she do? Little Miss Control Freak?_ He smirked into the darkness.

"Yes."

His eyebrows jumped a little at the decisiveness of her tone. He was rather impressed.

"Very well."

Reaching across her for another of the pillows, he yanked off the pillowcase, before grasping the material in his strong hands and tearing it into long strips. He'd never been in the room previously but had noticed the turned posts on the bedhead immediately. Force of habit.

Taking her by the wrist, he tied one end in a firm knot before feeling for the post and tying the other end around it.

"Move to the middle of the bed," he instructed.

She obeyed without question.

Climbing over her, he tied the second strip of material to her other wrist before securing it to the far post.

He looked down, wishing that he could see her—helplessly sexy Miss Granger. But the subsequent surge of blood into his cock transformed his grin into a grimace. Tugging at his member, he attempted to readjust its position inside the painfully tight confines of his trousers before giving his firm head a reassuring squeeze. It wasn't time . . . not yet.

"Are we ready to continue, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, Professor . . . please."

 _Interesting . . ._ far better manners than she'd demonstrated in recent times. And he wouldn't be surprised if they happened to continue to improve as things . . . progressed.

Pulling off his boots, he dropped each with a deliberately loud thud, feeling the satisfaction of her slight body jolting against him—still deliciously on edge. Then he felt his way over to her, straddling her torso and legs with his arms and knees before allowing himself to sink down on top of her, burying his face in the soft, warm mounds of her breasts.

"Oh!" A sharp moan escaped her as his gentle nuzzles suddenly gave way to an intense heat, the sensitive bud of one nipple being drawn into the scorching cavern of his mouth. The suction from his lips and tongue was so forceful that she winced, writhing against him, revelling in the surprisingly potent blend of pleasure and pain. Straining against the binds, she ground her head into the pillow, keening with mounting intensity until he suddenly released her.

She gasped. Her nipple was throbbing . . . but so was her core. The sensation had penetrated her, piercing her viscerally, igniting something deep inside her—a dormant force that felt both foreign and familiar . . . and powerful. He had been right—it was uncomfortable but she didn't hate it at all . . . far from it.

Next he targeted her other breast, engulfing more this time, his tongue laving expertly around the nipple in a way that made it clear he'd done it many times before. She didn't happen to care. It was like being given a master class in the pleasures of the body, and she wasn't too proud—or stupid—to suggest that she wasn't in need of some expert tuition.

She only wished that she could see him—that she could watch his face as he consumed her. _Would he be frowning, servicing her with his usual stern focus? Or would he be blissfully abandoned?_

Both images of him were suddenly incredibly sexy to her. It was almost impossible to believe that she hadn't seen it previously . . . that deep, seething well of passion that he possessed.

As she arched up into him, moaning with desire, Snape felt his mouth watering with the need to taste more of her. Lips dragging against her skin, his tongue emerged, gliding languorously down her abdomen, her muscles undulating in synchrony with her abandoned groans until he could hold back no longer, nipping her, biting into the fresh, quivering flesh that teased against his lips.

She released a lustful cry that tortured his cock even further. No longer caring to draw out the journey, he suddenly grasped her thighs and pressed them apart so that he could engage with the ultimate prize. Descending upon it, he inhaled deeply, savouring the warm muskiness of her crevices, inspiring the dewy damp of her bush, allowing her entire spread to infuse the chambers of his nasal passages as he primed himself to enjoy what was already promising to be an intoxicating blend.

Nuzzling into her folds, he allowed his second most prominent asset to hunt out the swollen bulb of her clitoris before sucking it into his mouth like a pacifier. His tongue flicked the hood back and forth and she started squirming, her rhythmic groans coming between the creaks of the bedposts as she strained against her binds. Rolling his tongue around her nub, stoking and prodding it, he quickly determined her preferred method of stimulation.

Then he released it.

The strains of breathy disappointment from above made him smile. But it was the intermittent nature of his attention that would really stoke her fire. He began licking and sucking at the surrounding folds of flesh, alternating between long laving strokes there and intensively working her clitoris with swift, darting flicks until her hips were jolting and spasming as though under continuous detonation. As her movements became increasingly frenzied, her normally impressive vocabulary degenerated into a stream of explicit exclamations that ended up including very few real words at all.

She also began desperately curling her hips, tilting her pelvis forward, trying to force him inside her. He would oblige . . . but she would have to work for it.

Grasping both of her calves, he began to raise her legs up, careful to avoid her injured ankle. As he lifted, he could feel her hips rolling forward quite magnificently. She was as flexible as he'd hoped she would be . . . perhaps even more so. _A gymnast perhaps? Or a dancer?_ He reached the point where he could slip one of her legs under each of her outstretched arms, pinning them back and apart. And when his palms slipped back down between her legs, gliding over his handiwork, he groaned appreciatively.

Others in her position would be practically upside down but she was perfect, her pussy laying wonderfully open and directly penetrable by his tongue . . . and anything else he desired.

He rewarded her with a few long licks, starting at the opening to her pussy which flared and contracted as he dipped delicately into it. His tongue dragged upwards, tipping into the opening of her urethra before ending with a firm and thorough servicing of her clitoris.

"Unnnhhh . . . uhhh," she groaned, the compression of her abdomen turning her vocalisations into guttural grunts. It was raw and primal and made him quite desperate to discover what he would be able to force out of her when the time finally came.

His next licks started lower, his tongue edging down to tease the scalloped entrance to her sphincter.

"Gods!" It was both shock and need as she bucked into his face.

Grasping her buttocks firmly to stop her from knocking him out, he dipped his tongue into her again, feeling her passage puckering and releasing, undulating powerfully in response to his intrusion. As she moaned, he could hear her head thrashing from side to side. She clearly hadn't experienced this type of stimulation before and was having trouble dealing with the intensity.

But he didn't let up, plunging into both holes, one after the other, wriggling and reaming before surging up to screw his tongue over and around her clitoris until she was crying out . . . begging.

And then he stopped.

"Please!" she choked.

He sat back to catch his breath, wiping a hand slowly across his chin. "Please . . . what?"

"Please Professor . . . I want . . . I need you to let me come . . . I need you to . . . fuck me." The last words were a sob of desperation.

"As you have fucked me over the past three months?"

A whimper of realisation escaped her.

"No! I mean, yes . . . I just . . . I'm sorry," she fumbled. "I should have tried harder. And I can . . . I will . . . I promise to work with you."

"How?"

"I'll try to be more . . . flexible."

 _Was that even possible?_ he wondered, just resisting the temptation to trail his hand over her beautifully turned hips.

"I could fast track the approach for trusted importers . . . such as yourself."

The corner of his mouth hitched up. It was exactly the suggestion he'd made months before—at least she'd been listening.

"And what if I don't wish to fuck you?" He let the words trickle out slowly, each one enunciated with precision . . . for maximum impact.

"I would call you a liar," she responded suddenly, a fresh boldness infusing her tone. "You're not the bastard you pretend to be. You attended to my ankle immediately, without hesitation . . . and if you are going to attempt to claim no desire for me after that performance, I'll not only withdraw my offer to assist you, but I'll take it as unequivocal evidence that my original characterisation of you was absolutely correct . . . you don't enjoy touch because you're fearful of being known . . . of being found out."

His jaw tightened. She hadn't lost her edge—it had just been dulled by lust, by need. And maybe that's what he'd enjoyed most about this time with her—knowing that she was still the insufferably antagonistic witch he'd always known but that she was willing to let him have her as he'd wanted, to give herself fully to the experience.

She was right. He did want to fuck her. And if he was totally honest, he had wanted it for some time. He just needed to know that she was equally willing. He needed to hear it . . . from her.

"Tell me what you want."

She grunted a little and he could imagine her lifting her head between her bound arms to face him.

"I want your cock," she demanded. "Now."

How she managed to deliver her ultimatum with such authority in her compromised state, he couldn't be sure, but it proved to be the final straw for his long-suffering cock which instantly lurched skyward, ready to burst from his trousers like a torpedo.

Rising to his knees, he yanked on his belt, freeing the buckle before tearing open his fly with one hand and pulling out his cock with the other. He sighed with relief as the pendulous weight bobbed free, swinging over the rising heat from her unseen pussy as though delivering a blind blessing. But as the head dipped towards her, it seemed more akin to a divining rod, attempting to tap into the hidden spring of liquid sex between her thighs . . . the one that he'd already drunk deeply from. In the end, his phallic characterisations didn't matter—it only mattered that she wanted it. And that he was ready to give it to her.

Hermione waited impatiently, clenching and unclenching her fists which were beginning to lose sensation. She had played all of her cards. It was completely unlike her but her desperation and degree of compromise was at a level she'd not experienced in a long time. She wanted him badly . . . and she'd told him so. Now he would do with that information as he wished. He may even choose to use it against her.

But then his delectable hands were back and she immediately resumed where she had left off. His fingers slid over her, inside her, through her, pressing and prodding and priming until she was gasping and groaning, falling back down that rabbit hole again. It really was gloriously mind-blowing.

And then her entire body surged as she felt it—his hot, silken head finally touching down, alighting upon her clitoris, both of their moist, sensitive bundles meeting and greeting, kissing, before he luged away down her slick furrow. After riding her groove again and again, he stopped to prod suggestively into each of her openings before slipping his impressive girth back between her folds. It was mesmerising and delicious but she was fast approaching the need to insist that he 'dispense with the foolish wand-waving'.

Then it all stopped . . . and he was back where she needed him to be—nudging into the opening of her supremely exposed pussy. She'd rolled out the lubricious carpet for him long before, and he'd only added to it with his own enthusiastic mauling. It was, therefore, time. In fact it was long overdue . . . she was long overdue. And as he pressed himself into her, she had a sense that it might well have been worth the wait—she was about to experience what was shaping up to be the cock of a lifetime.

"Oh fuck, yes!" she cried as he thrust inside.

He didn't make it particularly far, but it was sufficient for her to know that no level of lubrication was going to make this an easy fit. Withdrawing slightly, he rocked a little before driving forward again, the rim of her pussy stinging exquisitely as a burst of pleasure hissed between her teeth—more delectable discomfort.

The next thrust had her legs squeezing against her elbows as she grasped the binds in her fists. She felt so incredibly full but she suspected that she wasn't. Not quite. Then he grasped her firmly by the hips and plunged home, his cock meeting her cervix with a decisive thud.

"Ohhhhh," she groaned. It was both an exclamation and a realisation—an erotic epiphany that she felt positive she would be left with, burdened with, for the rest of her life. _How did one go back from this?_

Fortunately enough, she only had milliseconds to consider a potential lifetime of disappointment before he began to move, his shaft pulling back so gradually that she could actually feel the bold ridge of his head reaming her walls before he plunged back into her with a bone-jarring thump. A hoarse cry flew from her lips but it was cut off by the next incursion, his powerful return knocking the wind from her and driving her further up the bed, stuffing her head into the pillows.

It was both frightening and magnificent. And he seemed to share her sentiment, his vocalisations expressing a deep, grinding need as he thrust in, but a rising note of anguish as he pulled out. Perhaps she was over-interpreting but she suddenly felt the desire to be more than just a folded up parcel of flesh to fuck the hell out of . . . although, admittedly, that would have been perfectly acceptable.

Nevertheless, she managed to slip one of her legs out from behind her arm, sliding it under his own and hooking it around his hips, drawing him closer to her. His plunges slowed, turning from hard pelvic slaps to a more sensuous grind. Then, between thrusts, she managed to extricate her other leg, forcing her knee against his back to draw him in further. The result was exactly as she'd intended—his body now pressed against her own, his face just above hers. Perfectly . . . positioned.

Snape had felt the entire time as though he was being drawn into a web, invisible threads pulling him into her, her pussy sucking at him deliciously, her wonderfully agile legs now wrapping him up ready for consumption. And yet he couldn't stop her. His position against her was in direct violation of all of his strategies for preserving control, autonomy, his objective distance, but there was something about her, something that made him want to be close.

And then she kissed him.

Lunging up from the darkness, she caught his lips between her own, tugging on them, licking with gentle undulations of her straining neck before she was forced to release him, her head collapsing back onto the pillow. But he was already gone, ensnared.

Sliding a hand under her neck, he tunnelled his fingers into her hair, fisting it desperately as he captured her mouth. Plunging his tongue into her sweet depths, he continued to thrust into the impossibly tight confines of her molten channel, drawing a ragged moan from her that only compelled his hips to surge harder, faster.

His passion and intensity were like nothing she'd ever encountered. She gasped, the liquid tension wrapping around her insides, her pussy about ready to combust with the friction of his iron length and its wicked incursions. And the taste of his lips, musky with her arousal only added to the heady bliss that was threatening to consume her.

It was too good. All of it. Hermione could hold on no longer.

Throwing her head back, she cried out, feeling his teeth sink into her neck as his formidable, pumping cock dragged her over the edge.

Clamping her legs around him, she seized, lifting her buttocks from the bed as the muscles of her core clenched powerfully, and then exploded into a divine tempest of exquisitely intense contractions. Fluid flowed, a surprising liquid release spurting past the rhythmic compressions of his cock, trickling down her buttocks. Ears ringing with a cacophony of her own shrieking moans, her entire body bucked violently against his, her fingernails clawing the binds around her wrists as her pussy desperately snatched and gripped at the relentless rod of flesh that continued to pummel and pleasure her.

The fierce grip of her muscular sheath, the baptism of juices that splashed over his cock and the rapturous shouts that accompanied her release proved to be his final undoing. A raw cry heaved from his chest as his balls lifted and pumped, ejecting stream after stream of exuberant seed into the welcoming convulsions of her tunnel. As he sprayed, he continued to thrust, drawing over and over from his deep well of need, filling her deepest recesses until his shuddering balls were wrung dry, exhausted, throbbing blissfully in the aftermath.

As they came down, their ragged breaths merged and synchronised, filling the darkness as they stared at one another—seeing nothing, feeling . . . everything.

* * *

Lucius staggered blearily down the corridor, glancing at the hall clock. _4 a.m._ What a night. He'd left two girls sleeping in his bed and done another one against the wall on his way to the bathroom. It was only after he'd relieved himself and thrown a few handfuls of water onto his uncharacteristically haggard-looking face that he'd remembered the room—and those locked within it.

His steps slowed as he approached. He wasn't drunk enough to believe that there wouldn't be fallout. In fact, he was almost more concerned about what the Granger girl might have in store for him than Snape. Still, he couldn't keep them locked in there forever. And in the aftermath of a glorious night—while he was still somewhat numbed to the repercussions—seemed as good a time as ever.

Withdrawing his wand, he unlocked the door and tentatively pushed it open before casting light into the lamps.

He instantly collapsed against the doorjamb, a small choking sound grinding out of his throat.

Snape was tied to the bed posts with something that looked suspiciously like his expensive silk bedding. And that beautiful, lithe creature was riding him, pert breasts bouncing exactly as he'd imagined, delicate fingers flexing desirously into the muscles of the professor's bare chest. Neither took the time to acknowledge him, seemingly too intent upon what they were currently engaged in . . . and, judging by their heated expressions, possibly the fact that they could now see each other.

Hermione's hand inched forward as she rocked rhythmically on Snape's lap before grasping his nipple and squeezing it, causing a low growl to roll around his impressive vocal cords.

Lucius had never seen or even imagined Snape in such a position. It just wasn't in his nature. But Miss Granger certainly hadn't been lying when she'd claimed that more than a glass of wine would have her up all night.

"Er . . . are you all right, Old Chap?" he ventured, pushing himself slowly upright.

Snape's mouth quirked up, his gaze never leaving Hermione's. "Never better."

Lucius could very well imagine. In fact, he was suddenly quite keen to get in on the action himself.

"Can I possibly be of any . . . assistance?"

Hermione turned to him, her lips deliciously parted with arousal.

"Yes," she breathed.

A lascivious grin captured Lucius' face.

"Please lock the door on your way out."

Then she leaned forward and cupped Snape's face in both hands before sinking down to capture his lips, her tongue stroking teasingly against his, lips curling into a playful grin.

Lucius looked despondently down at his own floundering erection, then back at Snape who had started to surge more emphatically between her perfect thighs.

 _You lucky bastard,_ he thought. _You lucky . . . lucky bastard._

Lucius decided then and there, that this was absolutely the last time he would be setting Snape up with anyone . . . especially a woman that he, himself, desired.

But as he pulled the door closed and saw the shine in Snape's eyes, the satisfied smile settling upon his lips, he realised that it was a pointless declaration. The last glimpse he caught was of her hands combing into his hair, clinging on as she began to moan, winding up to come. Touching his wand to the doorknob, Lucius snorted with grudging acceptance. If he ever managed to extricate them from his room, he knew there was a good chance that neither the surly professor nor his courageous rider would require such 'help' ever again.


End file.
